disgusting
by desolation
Summary: T-chan ponders his master's fascination with that horrible human. Yes, of course it's slashy.


Title: disgusting

Author: desolation (misseuropalemsipdrinker@hotmail.com)

Rating: PG-13

Warnings: Rated for impure thoughts. Slashy -- don't like, don't read. 

Disclaimer: Not guilty.

Author's note: This is something of an experiment for me, as I don't usually do first-person, so please let me know if you think it's worked or not. I know the T-chan-being-jealous thing is something of a cliché at the moment, but this is only a little throwaway, so read it anyway ;o). Beta-read by Mouse, though any remaining mistakes are, of course, my own.

^*^

 The door slams shut, and _he_'s gone at last, thank all the gods. He stays later and later every time he comes here, these days. It's late now, dark, but still hot, and, even though he's gone, the smell of him still hangs round in the air. It's disgusting. Cigarettes and cheap shampoo, and somewhere under it the salt of human sweat. 

 Before, when I first got here, the Count used to wrinkle his nose at it, and wave round a few sticks of incense – sometimes even squirt a bit of that horrible, synthetic-smelling air freshener that humans use in the air – after he'd gone. He hardly ever bothers now. He's standing by the door still, looking out, shadows melting into him and his silk just barely gleaming in the dusk. And then he turns back to us, finally, breathes in a little more deeply than usual, and smiles at me like he doesn't think I've noticed anything. He sits back down, but on the couch this time, right where that vile human was sitting before, and reaches for a chocolate. _He_ brought them, and even though they're pretty good ones – no doubt picked out by that woman he's friends with, since _he_ wouldn't know the difference between a top-quality truffle and a Cadbury's Crème Egg – it makes me want to jump up and knock the box over, scatter them all on the floor.

 Except that that, of course, would make the Count angry. I've only ever seen him lose his temper once or twice, but, well, I wouldn't want to be on the receiving end. It's scary.

 He's holding one of the chocolates now, between thumb and index finger, looking at it like it's something precious, and his eyes go hazy with anticipation for a second before he puts it between his lips – and for a that second I almost forget to be resentful, because _hell_, it's a sight to see. And then his eyes close in an expression that's quite frankly post-coital, and I remember where those chocolates came from. I have to look away then; I think I'm going to be sick.

 The clock chimes. It's midnight. The Count glances up at it, eyebrows arching in surprise that's not quite surprise, even though all it is is the clock, and he always knows what time it is anyway. He's theatrical, perfect – even over little things like that. I guess that's why no-one can ever not look at him. Especially not that disgusting human, always sitting there gawping like someone in a zoo.

 And then he's standing up, bidding us all goodnight, leaning down to pet me – his hands on me for a few, blissful seconds. Then he's gone, disappearing down the corridor with that stupid, smug-looking rabbit fluttering behind him. I look after them – just a glance as he glides away, melts into shadow. I can't look too long; it makes me hungry.

 I jump onto the couch and curl up, but I can't get to sleep there. It stinks of human, and Sylvia keeps teasing me. She doesn't seem to see what's wrong with that man – thinks he's "dumb but cute" or some crap. I don't get that. What's _not_ wrong with him's more like it.

 An hour's fidgeting later, I'm still uncomfortable, but everyone else seems to have fallen asleep. I glance round to make sure they really are – though you can never really tell with those reptiles – and then ease myself off the couch, pad along the corridor, to the back of the shop and upstairs. I pause for a second before nosing open the bedroom door, pretty sure no-one can see me but my heart still beating fast. I _really_ can't go getting caught.

 Stupid rabbit's asleep. Good. So's he, the Count – but not with the serene, untouched expression he usually wears, even unconscious (I've done this before, a couple of times, though I wouldn't tell anyone. I'd never hear the end of it, trust me). His head's thrown back and to one side, hair all tangled as if he's been turning over in his sleep, lips parted and his face a little bit flushed. His eyelashes flutter every few seconds, the shadows of them elongated in the dark, and his breathing's shallow. Not so deep asleep tonight, then. I almost let myself imagine what might happen if he woke up now, in _my_ world, envisage a couple of gorgeous, unlikely scenarios – but I know it's a bad idea. That way madness lies. I'm only the fucking lap-dog. All I get to do is look, and even that requires sneaking around like a thief in the early hours of the morning.

 It's hot even in here, and the blankets are twisted down to his waist, and – dear gods, did I do something really right in a past life or something really wrong? I'm not sure – the top half of that light, silky outfit he wears to sleep in is unbuttoned, right to the waist. His skin's bright in the dim room, the colour of the richest, sweetest cream, pale throat unprotected and open to hungry eyes (if looks could kill, Count, you'd be stripped to the bone). And a narrow strip of skin – try not to imagine how smooth it might be, perhaps even a little damp with perspiration in this heat – to the waistband of his trousers, interrupted only by the soft little pit of a navel. What would that taste like if I stuck my tongue in it? Salty, like humans do, or sweet, the way I like to imagine?

 I close my eyes, but I can't keep them shut.

 Why, again, do I torture myself like this? Because look but don't touch is better than don't look at all, right? It's just – how _can_ I look but not touch?

 I've crept closer without even really realising it, and I'm almost crouched by the head of the bed. His right hand's resting on the pillow, upturned, helpless thing, the skin inside that wrist looking more delicate than any fruit I've ever tasted. The other arm's thrown across his body, hand resting on his stomach, half-covered by the blankets – but I can imagine it, the tips of those fingers just brushing against a hip-bone. It's deliciously strange, seeing him sprawled out like this, when he's so serene and austere, so angel-of-judgement, by day. I feel like some kind of voyeur – which is, I suppose because I am. This isn't for my eyes, I've broken in on something no-one ought to see.

 His face is so close to me now, plummy shadows in his hair, lips moving soundlessly and hardly at all. I can feel his breath. It's warm.

 I steal just another glance at his expression, and then – this is stupid, I keep telling myself, this is _really fucking stupid_, but I do it anyway – risk moving my hand up to the pillow, nervously brushing it against his, and then, finally, sliding my fingers between those long, slender ones the colour of milk. He stirs minutely, and for a second my heart stops and I'm all ready to bolt. But then all he does is smile dreamily (well, yeah, he _is_ asleep), and grip my hand back the tiniest bit. Relief floods through me, and at the same time I feel like my insides are doing acrobatics. Not quite daring to believe it, I rest my head against the little corner of pillow that's left, not ever taking my eyes from his face, my breath stirring his hair a little.

 And then I hear a soft whisper, a barely-formed word, and suddenly all I can smell is human. 

 It's just a soft breath, a half-articulation, but I have to untangle my hand from his then, ready to slink away with my tail between my knees. A faint look of confusion crosses his face in his sleep before his expression relaxes, all clear and beautiful again. I sink back down to the floor. After all, it's where I belong. 

 Momentary, irrational rage washes over me – thanks for reminding me you're not interested, master, but did you have to do it like that? – then subsides. It's not fair. I shouldn't be here, I know that, really – but neither should anybody else. What _is_ it about that blind, blustering, stupid human? So many of us worship him – why, _why_, is he so fascinated with some creature too ignorant to do so, and far more pig-headed than any pig I've ever met? I don't get it, and I can't do anything about it except bite that horrible man in the leg. It _really_ isn't fair.

 There's a rustle of sheets as my master stirs in his sleep, murmurs something, but I'm on my way out; I won't stick around to listen again. I already know all I need to hear, really; it's a name, and not mine.

^*^

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